Aiora
by olgatheodora
Summary: Ropes and childhood rituals. A side-story to If Not, Winter.


AN: Aiora was an Athenian festival celebrated in honor of Erigone and Icarius. The common explanation for the origin of the festival is as follows: Icarius was friends with Dionysus, who gave him the gift of wine (wine being unknown in Greece at this time, according to the myth). Icarius shared the wine with his shepherds, who became disoriented and, believing themselves to have been poisoned, slaughtered Icarius. Erigone was led by her faithful dog to the scene of the crime, where she cursed the maidens of Athens before hanging herself. When the young women of Athens began committing suicide for no discernable reason, the oracle of Delphi told the people of Athens that Erigone and Icarius had to be honored every year to end the curse. The festival was celebrated by hanging dolls from tree limbs, or- in some accounts- hanging swings from sturdy tree limbs for ritual swinging by the young women. I have taken poetic license with the rituals of Aiora to suit them to this story.

This story was originally written long before Daybreak, at a point when we only had a basic account of Roslin's family background. Because of this, there are definite deviations from her canonical family history.

***

It was Aiora, and Laura was up with the dawn to wash her face with dew, as was traditional. Laura had been raised on tradition, and her mother was very keen on the Aioran traditions in particular. Laura's sisters scoffed, but they were older and more often than not liked to bend the rules when they could.

Still, Laura had heard the door creak open as she tiptoed her way down the stairs, and as she stepped into the crisp morning air she spotted a flash of her eldest sister's copper braid. Hannah disappeared into the trees, barefoot and wearing earphones. Laura decided not to mention the music device to her mother; it would only cause an unnecessary argument on what should be a festive day.

Of Iris there was nothing to be seen, but when Laura had woken up that morning her sister's bed had been empty. She took that as a sign that Iris was also performing her religious obligation, although it was equally as likely that Iris was ensconced in her basement workshop, fingers smoothing rough sandpaper over wood.

The dew was cold against Laura's skin, and a few loose pieces of grass slicked themselves against her cheeks. An ant marched across her right leg, detouring from her knee to the base of her calf before resuming its grassy trek.

This was Laura's fifth Aiora. She was ten, wondering when she would see her sisters' blossoming hips and breasts replicate themselves on her own figure. She saw no signs of her own budding anywhere in the near future, and figured that she would remain straight up-and-down for the rest of her life.

Swiping at the grass that slashed across her face, she scrambled to her feet as Iris came into view, drops of dew dotting her sister's face. Iris had been in the fields after all, and as she approached her little sister Iris lifted a hand to smooth down Laura's errant curls. "Hannah went too far," Iris stated blandly, knowing as well as Laura did their eldest sister's dreaming nature. "But she'll be back in time."

Laura sometimes thought that Iris knew more than she ought, and wished that she could emulate her sister's easy serenity. "Where is she?" Laura asked, clasping hands with Iris, her coltish grace at odds with Iris' fluid steps.

"The north field," Iris said immediately, turning slightly to glance in that direction. "With the flowers." She smiled and squeezed Laura's hand. "She's coming."

Their grandmother used to say that Iris had the sight, and Laura was only beginning to realize that her grandma had meant something beyond what was seen with the eyes. It wasn't a gift that Laura thought she would like; sometimes Iris acted as if what she saw was displeasing.

Hannah loped out of the woods, up to her ankles in mud and wildflowers in an untidy bouquet in her hands. She tugged Laura's braid as she passed at the same quick pace, intent on reaching the stoop and washing her feet. She left one perfect footprint on the concrete, and in the next moment a swirl of water from the hose washed the print away.

The kitchen door opened from the inside, revealing their smiling father, whose hair was as red as theirs. Laura rushed up the steps into his arms, and he carefully plucked a stray blade of grass off of her face. He was dressed simply for the ritual, as they were, and likewise his feet were bare. They would not be going into town on this day; Aiora was an event best observed at home.

Laura's mother appeared behind her husband, and with Laura's chin propped on her father's shoulder, she was at the perfect height for a kiss. In her mother's hands was cradled a small statue: Erigone, the heroine remembered on Aiora. Laura asked every year why Erigone was the heroine if her father had been the one murdered, and the explanations she received never quite answered the question that grew with every year.

Her father carried her into the yard, her sisters and mother trailing, and carefully placed her in the old wooden swing, which had seen so much use ever since its creation. On any other day of the year it was the sisters' favorite mode of play, each squabbling over whose turn it was, but on Aiora it was a sacred object used only for ritual. Laura, as the youngest, was first, and each sister would receive a turn as befitted their maiden status.

Under her hands the familiar ropes felt smoother than they had the day before; the wooden seat a tad bit steadier. Aiora had its own magic, and Laura could feel the faint current grow as her father's hands grasped her waist and pulled her back. There was a moment when she came close to sliding off the swing, and then… release.

She swung in a perfect arc up toward the sky, and back again toward her father, the grass tickling the soles of her feet as the swing grew closest to the ground. At first, all she felt was the euphoric rush that always accompanied swinging, which she tried to repress in remembrance of the holiness of the occasion.

It was Iris' face that first caught her attention; her sister's usual serenity had been tinged with grief, and Iris held her left arm tucked protectively across her midsection, as if warding off a weapon. Beside her, Hannah watched the ritual without any discernable passion. Laura saw the quick look Iris directed at Hannah, her sister's eyes trained just behind Hannah's right ear.

Iris was the family mystery, Laura thought, as her father gave her a final push, and she instinctively began to work with the swing, legs curling out and under throughout the arc. Her mother's hands shifted, slightly, and the metal that Erigone was fashioned from glinted in the early morning sun, snatching her attention away from Iris.

She looked forward, toward the sun, and closed her eyes in her self-made breeze.

* * *

She was still the youngest, and still the first on the swing, but this year she was thirteen, with barely discernable curves under her pants and shirts. It had been several months since Laura had been forced to wait for a turn on the swing; her sisters had become increasingly involved in classes and boys and their own friends. Hannah was on the verge of graduating from high school, and were it not for the fact that Iris refused to move up a grade, she might have joined Hannah in graduating.

They were all three intelligent girls, and Laura had skipped a grade herself at the beginning of the year. Iris seemed reluctant to take life any faster than she had to, at least when it came to certain areas: education was one, though she by no means neglected her bookwork. Iris seemed happy enough to stay at home on a Saturday night, and yet she would be the first Roslin sister not to participate in the Aiora.

Iris, though seemingly removed from the fast-paced world, had still been the first of the sisters to lay down with a man. She had informed their mother of the milestone with her usual calm forthrightness, and during the following interrogation she had merely said, "Sometimes we don't have enough time to do everything," in reply to every question.

That had been months ago, but it still felt wrong to sit on the swing and know that Hannah would come next, and that the ritual would end with Hannah. Iris stood next to their mother, the statue of Erigone clasped in her hands, and Laura wondered at the small smirk that her sister wore.

Hannah waited, hands clasped behind her back, standing as straight and slim as a young tree, her eyes unusually focused on her youngest sister. The grass brushed across the soles of Laura's feet in a dizzying rush, and she felt the beginnings of a strange trickle between her thighs.

Suddenly, Iris' smirk made a lot of sense.

* * *

The day was unusually cold for Aiora, but Laura barely noticed the chill as she lowered herself slowly into the weathered swing. The ropes wouldn't hold for another season; come winter the swing would no longer make a safe seat.

She looked the picture of a proper Aioran maiden: hair braided meticulously, clad in only a simple shift and cheeks still dotted with dew. It was her surroundings that did not fit with the festival. She was alone in the yard, and the grass reached nearly as high as the swing seat. Clouds lay heavy with rain in the sky, and it would not be long until the fields would be wet with rain.

Until this year, Laura had always associated the Aiora with life, as the festival that appeased Erigone's restless spirit. She had never really stopped to consider the death of Erigone herself, or why she had needed appeasing. The Aiora, she was beginning to realize, had much more to do with death than it did with life.

She looked up at the sturdy branches of the tree, considering the way the ropes of the swing knotted securely around one limb. Erigone had hung herself in a tree just like this one, her body swinging over her father's hasty grave. Erigone's father Icarius had died at the hands of the first drunkards, and Laura's father and sisters had died in that continuing legacy.

Unlike Erigone, Laura had no plans to hang herself from the tree she had known since she could first toddle. She had her mother to think of, after all. Still, as she swung in a perfect arc, the grass lashing against her calves, she wondered what was worse: a rope, or the crunch of metal and the spray of glass.

* * *

There were other uses for the materials, but there was a general consensus that the children of Galactica deserved what little fun they could be given, and that a few swings worth of chain and metal could be spared from the junk rooms. The allure of the swings had the added benefit of distracting the children from their usual pranks, and as Laura's daughter often seemed to be the ringleader of such activities, Laura welcomed the change.

Currently, Clotho was happily engaged with one of the swings, with Ismene and Hera arcing somewhat in tandem on either side of her. It was after dinner, and from one side of the room Laura watched with Bill as their daughter tried her best to reach the ceiling (a rather futile activity, with the swings' limited range, but they were content to let her dream). Kara sat nearby, the report on her lap going unread as she kept a careful eye on her girls.

"Do you remember the Aiora?" Kara suddenly asked, glancing over at Laura. "I remember how the other girls used to talk about it in school." No explanation was given on why Kara herself had not participated, and Laura didn't think that asking would garner an answer.

Laura had done a lot of thinking herself about that particular ritual in the past few days. "We celebrated at home until I was thirteen," she answered carefully, not adding the reason why the ritual had gone unobserved in the following years. "We had a swing in our backyard."

"I knew girls who used to whine about living in town and not having access to morning dew." Kara shook her head, chuckling softly. "They had to settle for sprinkling a house plant with water and saying it was symbolic."

The ribbon slipped off of Clotho's braid, allowing the long strands to unwind, and Laura wondered how long it would be until she had to untangle them from the chains. Clotho had the look of Iris, sometimes; just wise enough to keep Laura on her guard, but at the moment she thought she saw a good deal of Bill's humor on their child's face.

"I never understood that festival," Bill suddenly said, not looking particularly amused. "It never seemed like anything worth immortalizing."

Laura watched the children thoughtfully, remembering the feel of swaying wood and taut rope, and decided not to get into an argument over antiquated gender roles and the value of appeasing the restless dead. That was all the ritual was for, after all, and her husband was not a religious man. She merely watched, her mind created strange paradigms.

Before her, Clotho swung with a bright smile, her hair trailing behind her like a banner.

In her mind, Erigone swung, rope cinched tight around her neck, the maidens of Caprica knotting their ropes behind her.


End file.
